Exile, Vilify
by How-I-Became-The-Sea
Summary: Doug Rattman was not a rat first. He was a man. His life was far from normal, or pleasant, but at least it was preferable to what happened after. Even considering the schizophrenia, the isolation, and... the visions? RattmanxOC. Rated T for safety, but probably not T-worthy.
1. The Calendar

**So, having ideas sucks. This story was the worst. It clawed at me from the inside whenever I stopped writing. It forced me to improve it, to make it perfect, to send it out into the world because it hated being trapped inside me. As it is, I never write chapters beforehand, I consistently write a single chapter, publish, and move to the next. I didn't edit this one a whole lot, because the idea was going to rip me open from the inside, so hopefully publishing it will calm it down.**

**URGENT: Before reading any of this, go listen to the song "Exile Vilify." Like 10 times. Don't even think about ignoring me. Go. Do it. I can wait. I'll listen to it, too. I probably would have done so anyway.**

**ALSO: I'm going to put a lot of things into this fanfic that tie into some of the random things in Rattman's dens. One of them is The Girls of Aperture Science calendar. Look that up, too.**

**DISCLAIMER: I wish I owned any of these characters. Then I could make this legit.**

* * *

August 29, 1983

_Tap, tap, tap._

The rhythm brings order to a chaotic mind. Voices shouting, screaming to be heard over the deafening noise. Each one convincing me in turn that they are the most important, the most trustworthy, only to be drowned out by a fiercer, louder opponent. They berate me. Antagonize me. Some of them just cry.

_Tap, tap, tap._

There are voices I know.

"_A danger to this facility, to us all-"_

"_-major health issues-"_

"_-rehabilitation-"_

Voices I don't know.

"_We're on the edge here. Artificial intelligence-"_

"_-you don't have to be alone. Never again-"_

Voices that shout and plead to be heard. I don't know what they want. I never have. It's not my fault-

"Doug Rattman?"

My fingers pause in midair as I look up. The voices cease as if on cue, and for the first time I realize I have not been tapping my desk, but the keys of my computer. This is fortunate, because the last person who was caught staring off into space in the presence of Cave Johnson still won't talk about the incident. Luckily, the man standing in front of me is not Cave Johnson, and also luckily, he is not actually looking at what I have typed.

"Boss wants me to deliver these." A booklet lands on my cluttered desk with a small _thud, _stirring a few papers. "New calendars."

"Calendars?" I ask, looking back at my computer. I am glad for the interruption, but I had been hoping for something even slightly more interesting. "It's nearly September already. Shame to use a calendar for only four months."

The man chuckles. "Yeah, wastes paper and all that nonsense. Fortunately our wonderful boss doesn't care about that shit. All he knows is, it's money he can take off our paychecks."

I pick up the calendar, slightly intrigued. The front reads: "The Girls of Aperture Science, 1983." It features a bikini-clad woman who most likely knows nothing about Aperture or science.

The man winks at me. "Cave Johnson's basic formula. Give the men pictures of pretty girls, they work harder for less pay. He's right, too." He chuckles again at his own wit and saunters away to the next room.

I look down at the calendar again. The girl is certainly very pretty. I'm sure no one in Aperture would understand if I told them that it didn't matter whatsoever. That the girl is empty.

Sighing, I lift myself from my chair and walk the two steps that it takes to cover the entire length of my claustrophobic office. Confined spaces nearly always make me nervous as hell, and this is by far the worst. I've avoided airplanes, buses, and empty rooms as much as possible since I was diagnosed, but it's difficult to avoid the office that you work in every single day. The clutter helps.

I take the old calendar off of the wall (last year's was The Technology of Aperture Science – not nearly as interesting) and toss it into the trash bin. I begin to hang up the new one, which is open to this month, but on a rebellious whim I flip it to September instead. I'm not sure why it gives me the sense of freedom that it does, turning the calendar page a few days ahead, but the model for August wasn't all that nice looking, anyway.

The first thing I notice about September's model is that she is not empty. Somehow I know that this woman was the only one who hadn't volunteered to pose in suggestive clothing, and the only one who wouldn't accept payment for it, merely out of her defiance. She has the same blank smile as the rest, but her green eyes are hard, and for a minute I feel the pain of the poor man holding the camera as those eyes bored holes in him. She hid it almost too well, but she was angry as hell to be there.

She is beautiful.

People often tell me that it terrifies them, how well I can read people. I always reply that, when you are simply observing humanity, you learn much more than when you are a part of it, following the same instinct and drive as everyone else. I do not see much more of these people.

I hold the calendar up to the wall and stick a pushpin through it. Shoving the girl to the back of my mind for the time being, I sit back down at my desk, interested. I still have not read what I typed so mindlessly into the computer.

The text on my screen reads:

glados glados glados glados glados

* * *

**Ooooh, plot twist! ;D**


	2. The Beginning

**Another fast and extra-long chapter today. I basically sneezed out this chapter, because it was begging me to publish it, but I did proofread, don't worry. Did you listen to Exile Vilify yet? You didn't? Well, we can put our differences behind us. For science. You monster. Now go do it.**

* * *

April 4, 1984

Writing should come naturally to me. Words should flow out in endless rivers, shaping the beautiful picture that I need others to see so desperately. Painting does this. Painting makes sense. Not only is it an outlet for my frustrated, disorganized mind, but it lets others finally see what they can't understand otherwise. They see my thoughts, completely exposed and vulnerable on a canvas. Also, instead of writing things like "endless rivers" and "beautiful picture," which sound pretty dumb, I can paint them, and they suddenly make sense somehow.

Writing is completely different than art, despite the belief that it should be lumped together with drama and music and all other expressions of free thought that generally make people uncomfortable. Writing is not visual whatsoever. Words, in their true form, are tiny black lines organized into patterns that somehow make sense to the human brain, though they do not reflect anything in nature. The words do not "tell" us anything. Every connection that must be made for the words to mean anything take place in the reader's brain; naturally, this creates a large amount of deviation from what the author actually meant. There is only so much you can write.

Tearing myself away from the completely blank document that is open before me, which I had intended to be filled with poetry by the end of my break, I stand up slowly. It takes some effort, as I have been sitting perfectly still for an indefinite amount of time. As I walk to the door and exit the room, I marvel once again at the changes that have come over Aperture in the past months. The change most important to me is the fact that my office no longer brings on feelings of claustrophobia; I have been promoted significantly, which of course merited changes in my workspace. The calendar on my wall is different as well; it features Aperture employees happily attending parties and company picnics that, to my knowledge, never actually happened.

I walk the halls quickly, purposefully. Another thing has changed, I realize; the number of suspicious and intimidated stares I had been receiving has noticeably dropped. It seems I've made a name for myself besides "schizophrenic," though I never understood how any word of my condition got out in the first place. At Aperture, I suppose, gossip that is not work-related is scarce. In any case, reactions as I pass by range from polite smiles to one-word greetings. Progress.

One thing that has not changed, and most likely never will, is the very intimidating set of pictures of our founder that line the shockingly white walls. Having to endure the constant stares of Cave Johnson from every conceivable angle is the closest thing Aperture has to an initiation test. Most fail.

Having reached my destination, I enter the meeting room, holding myself as professionally as possible. I take my usual seat near the back of the room, avoiding the chattering scientists as much as possible. Settling in to the chair, which is still much more comfortable than the one in my office, my eyes stray to the projector screen. It is currently displaying some very important-looking and very meaningless data. I have heard possibly more than I should have about this new project and its importance, but as a programmer, the facts and charts are not exactly my domain.

A few minutes pass by, full of meaningless chattering between the scientists, and still the meeting does not start. Trying to control my growing lack of focus, I scan the room for familiar faces. Or possibly someone who can tell me what I am actually doing here.

I have never met her in my life, but I would've recognized her anywhere.

She is in a heated conversation with several very prominent scientists, who nod and agree with her as if they are being paid to do so. In her excitement, she doesn't seem to notice. Her smile widens with each sentence, and broad gestures accompany every point she makes. The scientists are becoming more and more confused as she goes on, yet they smile and nod as always, in nearly perfect synchrony.

She was on the calendar. September, 1983.

Only after she shoos the others away and looks in my direction do I realize that I have been staring like a complete idiot. Not sure what I could possibly do to improve the situation for myself, I simply smile. Apparently I have not made too bad an impression, because she is smiling as well as she walks gracefully over to me.

"Something I can help you with?" she asks in a businesslike voice.

I clear my throat loudly. "Oh… no, nothing. Just… I'm sure I recognize you."

She sighs and crosses her arms. "I'm sure you do. Just like my lapdogs over there." She motions towards the scientists that were talking – well, mostly agreeing – with her earlier. "I think they're too busy smiling and nodding to get in a word of what I say." She looks at me suspiciously. "Don't tell me you're one of them, 'cause I've said it a million times, I don't _need_ new project partners."

I laugh, feeling more comfortable. "No, nothing like that. I'm in a completely different department. Actually, I recognized you from the, uh…" I clear my throat again, looking down at my papers. "…The calendar. Last year's."

She tosses hear head back and laughs, and my embarrassment is completely forgotten. Her long blonde hair flies out in all directions. "Not that thing! I couldn't go out for weeks because of that! I was completely mortified!"

I grin widely. "I did get the sense that you didn't exactly want to be there. Were you the only one who didn't volunteer?"

"Oh, I volunteered. It was mandatory."

I chuckle and look down. "That's Mr. Johnson for you. Never learned the meaning of the word 'volunteer.'"

"His complete bullheadedness is terrifying sometimes," she says, suddenly quiet, "and it's the most inspiring thing I've ever seen."

"Well, that's him. His mind is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and then surrounded by barbed wire and and an unnecessary amount of lasers. I think even _he's _forgotten how to get inside."

She looks at me closely. "Has anyone told you how good you are with words?"

I smile and cross my arms on the table. "Many times. And there must be a conspiracy, because they are completely wrong. Art is what I do best. Besides, most of that was quoting Winston Churchill."

She seems very pleased, and naturally this makes smile like an idiot. "I'd love to see your art sometime." I laugh. "No, really, I would! I write music, myself."

"Well, we'll have to make a trade then." I look around suddenly as something hits me. "Why hasn't the meeting started? It should have begun ages ago."

She looks at me sheepishly. "They're waiting for the presenter. Me."

She allows me to gape for a few seconds, then says, "Yes, there _are _women who can co-lead multi-million dollar projects _and _be pretty."

"I wasn't going to say anything," I lie.

"Well, you're right, I'd better get started. Nice meeting you." She begins to head for the front of the room, but turns back, smiling. "Josephine Elwood, by the way. And I _am _serious about seeing your art."

"Doug Rattman," I reply quietly, though she has already walked away.


End file.
